


Socktacular Socktacular

by Hope



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack Fic, Gen, prankwars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-20
Updated: 2007-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prankwars. Following 2.15 Tall Tales.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Socktacular Socktacular

Dean leaves his dirty socks in the basin.

It takes Sam a while to _get_ it. At first he's a little confused, mildly disgusted. There is no way that Dad would have allowed it, not without some extremely practical reason, and that just kind of ticks over in the back of Sam's mind the first time it happens. He's hand-washed the socks and a couple pairs of his own shorts and slung them, dripping, over the shower curtain rail before he's even thought it through.

It takes a while for him to alter his angle on it, to consider that maybe it's started now because they're spending longer in the same place every time -- not the frantic hack-and-burn-and-fall-asleep-clothed the first couple months had been, after. Not even just long enough for Dean to want to undergo some Marine-trained ritual of basin sock-washing, but long enough to give Dean the chance to change his socks, period.

After what must be at least the tenth hotel, tenth basin, ten thousandth sock, Sam's well and truly beyond shoving them in the laundry bag. Or even just aside.

He decides to forgo informing Dean that he’s the biggest slob to walk the earth verbally, instead going for the surprise approach. From the door of the bathroom the thrown handful of socks flies true, lands in Dean's open bag of candied popcorn. Dean glances up, glances down. Picks the socks out of the bag, dumps them on the floor. Shoves another handful of popcorn in his mouth and cranks the volume up on _Grey's Anatomy_. "I am _not_ washing your dirty socks," Sam says. Dean makes a muffled "mmhmmf" sound through his mouthful. Sam stomps back into the bathroom to finish getting undressed for his shower.

It doesn't take Sam that long to decide that the next time Dean does it, it will be a declaration of war. Sam neglects to tell Dean of this fact, and feels no guilt at all. All's fair, after all.

He starts simple. No matter how much Dean might rib him about being a drama queen, when it comes down to meaningful action Sam’s more about efficiency than histrionics. It doesn’t take long - less than a week - to debunk the theory that Dean’s socks end up in the basin because it’s the most sanitary location Dean can stand. Sam’s experimental re-location of them to a number of places - the glove compartment, Dean’s porn stash, on Dean’s face while he’s sleeping - come up with nothing. Not even the pretence of ignoring them; Dean seems to shift them aside like they’re just another part of the day-to-day debris of his life.

Sam decides to up the ante.

It’s amazing how much of a difference changing the owner of said socks makes. Even if it’s pretty much impossible to tell the difference between whose is whose. In fact, Sam’s pretty sure they’ve been exchanging the same pairs since Dean put that mixed lights-and-darks load through back in a 24-hour laundrette in Birmingham.

Sam gains a whole new level of respect for Dean’s olfactory skills when Dean pauses upon encountering an extremely used pair when seeking out the cigar box of fake IDs in the glove compartment. Sam feigns disinterest, staring blankly out the window but watching in the reflection: Dean’s nose wrinkles minutely, instead of just sifting past the sock he picks one up between thumb and forefinger, lifts from glove compartment and deposits it in the floor.

Sam’s bland expression doesn’t shift, but inside he’s waving his fists in victory.

Sam doesn’t delude himself; one skirmish does not a war win. He’s not even sure that Dean knows he’s in a war just yet, and in Sam’s book, that means Sam’s already on the road to winning. Dean has a good poker face, though. As blunt and crude as Dean can be, Sam’s startled anew every time Dean reveals himself to be miles ahead of where Sam thought he was.

Sam’s campaign is a gradual one. Glove compartment first, then cassette box. Then the pocket of Dean’s duffel that he keeps his snacks; half-eaten bags of M&amp;Ms, fluff-stickied jerky, that kind of thing. That’s the first time Dean lets his game face slip; or maybe he truly, honestly didn’t realise what was going on until then. Just thought that Sam had got into the habit of removing and stashing his socks in all kinds of random places. Or hadn’t thought on it at all.

“Dude,” Dean says, and it comes out kind of soft and startled, like he didn’t mean to speak at all. Sam looks up from his newspaper, sees Dean straighten, holding the offending sock between thumb and index finger. There’s a half-chewed stub of jerky stuck to the toe.

“Oops,” Sam says. Dean’s gaze flickers to him, and Sam represses a grin of glee at the sight of Dean’s wounded expression. “Sorry. I guess I, uh… Guess I thought that was the dirty laundry pocket.”

Dean gets a funny expression then, only briefly passing over his features before he smooths it over with a quick frown. He tosses the sock onto Sam’s bed. “Whatever,” he mutters.

The next morning Sam’s not entirely surprised to find one of Dean’s socks draped over Sam’s toothbrush, but it doesn’t make it any less gross. For a fleeting moment childhood instincts take over and he’s got Dean’s own brush poised a hair’s breadth from left his nostril when he gets the strong whiff of mouthwash. Apparently Dean’s got some learned behaviours of his own left over. Sam sets down the booby-trapped brush and picks up his own again. He makes sure to deposit the offending sock in Dean’s own shaving kit while he digs around for the well-hidden mouthwash, dousing the head of his brush with it liberally.

It still tastes like foot.

Now it’s on, and Dean knows it’s on, and that means it’s time to take the next step. Sam’s still smarting from the toothbrush incident when the next opportunity rolls over and presents itself a little less than 24 hours later.

He’s rarely been so happy to see morning wood. Dean’s mouth’s still open in sleep, drool crystallizing the corners, and his tee-shirt’s rucked up a little below his navel. His fingers, considerably lacking motor control, scratch sloppily at the wiry hair there before flopping back to the mattress. The comforter’s kicked down around Dean’s feet, and Sam sits up very slowly.

He’s seen Dean in all states of undress and Dean isn’t exactly slow to remind him of all the diapers he changed - or at least, _witnessed_ being changed - before Sammy was toilet trained, but it’s never really been this _voluntary_ before. He gets the positioning right then holds his breath, watches Dean’s face carefully for signs of wakefulness as he wiggles the sock down.

Dean spreads his legs a little and snorts, and Sam startles back, nearly falling between the beds and then he has to quickly run to the bathroom and attempt not to choke on his own giggles. Dean hasn’t moved again by the time Sam’s regained enough composure to return, and Sam dresses quietly before settling against the headboard of his own bed, snapping some photos with his cell phone before pulling a book out of his satchel.

Another ten minutes later and Dean’s still hardly moved, hardly showing any signs of wakefulness or even jerking-off-in-his-sleepfulness, and Sam’s just considering giving a really loud _cough_ or something when Dean snorfles again, and rolls over, belly-down on the bed, turning his head away. Sam holds his breath but Dean’s still breathing deep and slow and _dammit_, Sam’s totally been _foiled_ because there’s no way the sock’s going to stay on now and besides, is Dean going to wake up _ever?_

Sam’s an early riser, sure, but can’t last more than the first thirty minutes without a hit of caffeine. He sighs quietly and rises from his bed. Oh well, at least he’s got some good blackmail material in the form of photos on his cell.

When he gets back to the room, coffee cup in each hand, Dean’s bed is empty and the bathroom door is cracked open, billowing steam. Dean’s faux-gruff metal voice is grunting out flat-keyed lyrics to the beat of the water against the plastic shower and Sam sighs, setting one cup on the dresser by the bathroom door, the other on the side table near his own bed.

Dean’s singing doesn’t falter as Sam quickly fumbles through Dean’s bedsheets, seeking out the most probably unconsciously discarded sock, but comes up with nothing. He goes for his own duffel next, then the laptop satchel, then his folded-open book on the coverlet but comes up with zero; no sign of sock _or_ tampering. Everything still in its right place.

Feeling deeply disturbed, Sam sits back tentatively against the headboard again, shifting his ass around to feel for potential revenge-traps before he reaches for his coffee again.

He’s only just taken the first sip when Dean comes out of the bathroom wearing his jeans and tee-shirt, stuck in places to his still-damp skin; sees his coffee, picks it up, stubs his toe on the foot of Sam’s bed and deposits said coffee all over Sam’s feet.

Sam swears loudly and pulls his feet back but it’s too late. The coffee - thankfully lukewarm instead of scalding, at least - has soaked through the battered tongue and lacing of his sneakers and through socks right down to skin.

“Oh,” Sam says, “great, Dean, just _great_.”

“Oops,” Dean says, sprawled over the foot of the bed. He doesn’t even try to hide his grin. He just… _god._ Sam had just expected _more_. “Sorry.”

“Wow,” Sam says. “That was just _so_ imaginative, it took you what - a whole fifteen minutes to think of? That must be a record for you. Way to go, Dean. _Way to go._”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Sammy.” Dean flips onto his back, hands behind his head, still beaming. Sam’s feet squelch when he stomps them on the floor, standing up.

Sam shakes his head, huffing. Sure, at least this means that the morning glory sock didn’t go unnoticed but _god_, it’s like Sam’s sent his greatest assassin out on a strategist’s mission and had a foot soldier sent back to fling some shit at him. It’s _insulting_ is what it is, and goddammit, Sam only has one clean pair of socks _left_. He’d never foreseen something as petty as _this_ when he started stockpiling for upcoming battles.

He makes a point of slapping the coffee-soaked socks on Dean’s unmade bed after he’s peeled them off and hell, the sneakers too because _dammit_, the only other shoes he has are some ectoplasm-crusted boots somewhere under the back seat, and this means he’s going to have to go out there without shoes on just to try and find them.

He hauls his duffel closer, digs down until he reaches the ziplock bag he keeps his balled-up clean socks in, right next to the one that holds his clean shorts. “Honestly?” he says, glancing briefly toward Dean where he’s still lying on the bed, watching Sam upside-down. “I’m disappointed in you, Dean.” He pulls out the last pair of socks, pulls them apart. “_So_ disapp–AUGH!”

He jerks his leg out, instinctively attempting to get the cold-and-slimy _thing_ he’s just stuck his foot into _the hell offa him_; after a couple of increasingly violent movement the sock sails over the second bed, hits the wall then falls out of sight.

Dean’s laughing. Dean’s laughing his freaking _head_ off, and Sam’s still not quite sure what’s happened, the sock made a weird _splat_ting sound when it hit the wall and there’s still something slimy on his foot, between his damn toes, and he pulls his foot a little closer to his face to try and find out just exactly what it is that Dean’s put in his– Oh. Oh _no_. “You didn’t. You did _not_ just come in my sock!”

Dean dabs at his eyes; only partially for show, and wheezes as his laughter slows, and the rapidity at which he puts on a straight face makes Sam feel abruptly out of his depth. “Not _just_ now,” he says. “And anyway, you’re the one who provided such a convenient receptacle. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“_My sock is not a receptacle!_”

“Well, technically…” Sam stands and Dean shuts his mouth, but Sam can see it twitch as he starts to hobble toward the bathroom, needing to get Dean’s spooge off his foot _right the fuck now_. Ugh. He can’t even _think_ about it without wanting to throw up in his mouth a little. It’s _between his toes._

Dean’s got the back of his hand pressed against his eyes, mouth wide open and cackling when Sam catches sight of his own coffee, abandoned on the side table. His revenge is unoriginal, maybe, but that just makes the poeticism of his next action kinda postmodern in its execution.

Dean shrieks when Sam upends the coffee over his groin, and Sam can’t help but wish it were hot enough to maybe do Dean some permanent damage (what? He has _spooge between his toes_), but that’s pretty much his last coherent thought before Dean’s arms wrap bear-like around his waist as Dean tackles him to the floor.

There’s a brief but vicious struggle but Dean’s always fought dirty; it’s possibly the lesser of two evils that it ends up with Dean’s head instead of his ass in Sam’s face. He sits on Sam’s chest, bony ass digging into Sam’s ribs and his knees pinning down Sam’s biceps. Sam flails futilely, attempting to buck Dean off but Dean’s unperturbed, and Sam can feel the coffee soak through his shirt as Dean gets a grip on Sam’s face, pries his jaw open and without much more preamble, spits into his mouth.

Dean’s not stupid, at least. He’d only needed a face full of an 11-year-old’s puke the one time to learn not to snort it back before dropping it in, but still he surges away after mashing Sam’s jaw closed again. He doesn’t get very far before Sam comes up swinging, winds Dean as he knocks him back into the edge of the bed.

The battle comes to a natural end with a dutch oven; both of them fighting to get their breath back as they lie on top of Sam’s now-(thank god)-stripped bed. Dean leans across and snags one of Sam’s coffee-soaked socks, considerately uses it to wipe the remaining spooge from between Sam’s toes. Sam chooses to read it as a peace offering; Dean takes his coffee black with no sugar, so it’s not like it’s going to be leaving a milky or sticky residue. Which… Okay. He’s just going to stop thinking about it, now.

“You asshole,” Sam huffs at last, as Dean flops back down beside him. “That was my last clean pair.”

“Actually,” Dean clears his throat. “Second-last.” He sticks his foot in the air, wriggles his toes in the stretched-out, washed-grey socks.

“I don’t even have any _shoes_,” Sam moans, and flings his arm over his face, covering his eyes.

Dean slaps Sam’s chest in commiseration. “Want me to piggy back you to the car?”

Sam doesn’t lift his arm, feels his mouth pull into a pout. He nods wordlessly.

“Okay.” Dean gives Sam one last pat, and then the bed rocks a little as he stands up. “Brat,” he says, not without affection.

[FANART BY AUDREY!](http://angstslashhope.livejournal.com/1174920.html)

**Author's Note:**

> http://hopeful-fiction.livejournal.com/53180.html


End file.
